George Orwell, who is one of my favourite writers, once wrote an essay entitled “Why I Write”. Having committed myself to the same craft for a year now, I thought it’s time I did the same.

Over this past year, I’ve done my best—regardless of whatever has been keeping me busy in my day to day life—to write and post something on a weekly basis. It’s something like my own Sunday sermon: what I’m writing is not a part of some academic project. A friend of mine, having read a few of my posts, complimented me on the style I chose, saying, “It’s a little bit like reading your journal.” He put into words what I could not: namely, although I’ll edit my writing for the sake of clarity, what you’ll find here are my raw thoughts. It serves as a peek under the hood, so to speak. This blog is a series of reflections on the issues that have intrigued or otherwise haunted me. Far from a detached armchair philosophy, what I have written, I have also lived.

Still, why bother putting pen to paper at all? —or, I should say, fingers to keyboard. This all started the September after I completed my undergraduate degree in philosophy. I had often loathed my degree while I was doing it because I thought (a) a lot of academic philosophy had lost its lustre, (b) a university education is not worth what it used to be, and (c) it is a frustrating experience to tumble down the “rabbit hole” (as my high school philosophy teacher called it) where there is no safety rail or “off switch”. If one understands philosophy as it was understood by its “father,” Socrates, then you would understand it not just another class you go to. Like many of the fine arts, when it is fully embodied, philosophy is a vocation—and it is a very tenuous one at that! It took some time for me to be at peace with this.

It seems very rare that one embodies “the philosopher”, much in the same way that it’s rare you meet a Christian who might even hope to be compared to Jesus, or a Buddhist who has attained the enlightenment of Buddhahood. I’m no exception: I can’t think of an occasion when, like Socrates, I’ve said, “All I know is I know nothing,” and properly felt the weight of that conviction. For those few occasions when I have come closest to that ideal, allow me to relate to you what it felt like. In his famous allegory of the cave, Plato compares philosophy to being released from your bonds in a cave, and walking out of the cave into the luminous world beyond. While I like Plato’s allegory, I do not think it adequately represents the struggle that comes from philosophising. It is very much like the intellectual equivalent of falling for what feels like eternity—you don’t know for how long! The gravity of your vocation propels you downwards until you can find some flat surface to grab ahold of, and even then, it’s as if you must wander a complicated network of dark tunnels before you can reach the top again. Of course, the philosopher would contend that—philosopher or not—everyone is, to some degree, trapped in this dark well. I suppose the difference is that some of us have eyes that are more accustomed to how dark it can be. The ideal philosopher, then, has a sensitive soul in this way.

What is one to do in this predicament? Like anyone who feels they are trapped in precarious circumstances that are beyond their control, one has their coping mechanisms—some less healthy than others, but all of which are intended for the express purpose of easing that burden. This burden need not be philosophy: the burden could be one of any number, though as Siddhartha Buddha wisely pointed out, one might boil it down to the first noble truth: that life is suffering, or at least it is really bloody difficult sometimes. People’s options for a coping mechanism are as unlimited as there are virtues and vices. For me, one of these mechanisms is writing.

Writing forces the writer to gather their thoughts together in a comprehensible way. So, not only does writing benefit others who might find a thought edifying, but it also helps the writer. Thinking can be so discombobulating sometimes, particularly in the case of philosophy. How easy it is to get lost in random thought, not bothering to situate it within the bigger picture! For the philosopher, writing (though not exclusively writing) can be a kind of catharsis. It is a release because it is a means of transforming the raw mess of line of thought into something elegant and intelligible to be digested not only for the writer himself when he looks back on his work, but for anyone who cares to read it. In short, writing can be edifying for just about anyone.

Moreover, writing is something that lasts. Though a word might be understood differently over time, when it is understood within the proper context, writing can outlast the writer himself. In many ways, what one writes is a self-portrait such that, if you read a good book, it might even feel like it is being read to you by the writer themself. This is especially true in the art of letter-writing, which has sadly become less popular. Indeed, this is why I have preferred the “journal” format: it is far more honest and intimate than a supposedly detached philosophical treatise, although even these works have something to say about the one who wrote them.

I started this little pet project at a time when I became conscious of my vocation as a philosopher, though there is a possibility that I might never live it out professionally (for whatever reason). But at least writing—or rather, blogging—presented itself to me as a way to do so in a way that could be edifying for myself as well as for others, and that would be lasting. In short, that’s why I write, but there’s still more to be said…